Lance The Knife: Die Moritat von Lance Messer
by miknnik
Summary: It's a showdown: when a serial killer is back in town, the Simon brothers relive the nightmare of the recent past.
1. Chapter 1

It was such a beautiful day in June; summer vacation was almost within school children's reach, perfect for playing hooky. And that was just what Rick and A.J. Simon did; they locked up their private investigation office before noon and drove to the beach to sit back and bask in the sun. It was a weekday, so they did not have to vie for the prime real estate on the beach. Sometimes, it was great to be your own boss.

They lay on chaise lounges with a cooler between them. This was one of Rick's favorite places to ogle scantily clothed girls, but today he was just content being immersed in the sun and the tranquility. And beers. He reached down to grab another can from the cooler and saw his brother gazing wistfully beyond the waves lapping the sandy beach.

"Hey." He flicked the beer can's ring tab at A.J. to get his attention. "No deep thoughts allowed on the beach, especially on a day like this."

A.J. slowly turned his gaze and offered a fleeting smile to his brother. "I wasn't contemplating Kant or Nietzsche. It's just that…"

"What?" Rick threw him a sideway glance from the corner of his eye while draining one third of the beer.

"I wish…" A.J. uncharacteristically struggled to put his emotions into words. "I wish I could preserve the moments of life's simple pleasures…"

"So, basically, you're having a Time in a Bottle moment."

A.J. smiled at the reference Rick had made. "Yes, something along the lines of it."

"If you're enjoying yourself, how come you look so glum?" Rick knew A.J. hadn't come clean. Something was eating at him.

A.J. dangled his right leg and kicked the sand lazily. After a few moments, he reluctantly told Rick with a sigh, "I just wish Dad were here with us."

_Dad! Of course!_ Rick wanted to slap his forehead for being so dense. Father's Day was only several days away.

"We've been here with Mom and Dad a lot of times." He tried to remind his brother.

"Sure, but we were still kids, busy playing with other kids. Dad was there just to keep an eye on us, nothing more." A.J. lifted his head and glanced at his brother with the same wounded look Rick had seen on the first Father's Day after their father's passing. "I never had a chance to tell him what he meant to me and thank him for being such a great dad except the times I gave him corny, handmade cards."

"He seemed to like them. As they say, handmade cards are better than store-bought ones." Rick could see A.J. was not quite convinced yet. "And who needs a collection of tasteless ties and socks he has no intention of wearing outside his bedroom?"

A.J. smiled a pale smile at Rick's comment.

"Once I bought a pair of underwear on sale right after Valentine's Day and gave it to Dad on one Father's Day. I thought it'd show him how much I loved him 'cause it had hearts all over. But of course, it was meant for a different kind of love—though I didn't realize it, it had something else on the fly under the flap. When he saw it, he turned bright red, and Mom started laughing hysterically."

That got A.J. chuckling.

"Anyway, you're a lousy drunk, A.J.," said Rick with a grin. "Why can't you be a happy one?"

"I'm not drunk. This is my first beer."

"In that case, have a few more."

A.J. was receptive to Rick's suggestion for a change. They killed a six-pack between them and spent the rest of the afternoon bantering and reminiscing.

S&S S&S

The brothers made a stop at a greasy spoon for a quick meal on the way home. A.J. objected to the choice of eatery, but since Rick was driving his Power Wagon, the objection was simply overruled. Their supper consisted of a double cheeseburger with fries for Rick, chicken quesadilla for A.J., and lots of strong coffee.

While Rick was nursing another cup, A.J. checked on the messages.

"Nothing urgent," reported A.J.

"So there's no need to go back to the office."

"Guess not."

Rick suggested a boys' night out, but A.J. declined. He knew his brother was still in a funk; however, decades of experience as his big brother told him he should keep his distance and let him sort this one out on his own terms. Talking wouldn't sway his conviction, that much he knew. A.J. was his own worst critic and the kind of man who found forgiving himself the hardest, even if his offense was as minor as failing to tell his father in excruciating detail how he adored him before his death when he had been just a little kid.

Rick dropped his brother off at home and then went out for a drink with Carlos and other buddies of his.

A.J. was comfortable being a homebody—he watched the latest news, read a few chapters of the book on Nikolai Romanov—the last Russian czar—that he had recently purchased and turned in around 11:30. His brother hadn't come home yet, so he let Marlowe out before putting him in the cabin of Rick's boat. He read one more chapter of the biography in bed then drifted off to sleep.

S&S S&S

A.J. woke up suddenly, wondering what roused him from a deep sleep. He did not have to wonder for long; someone was at the door rapping on the glass pane hesitantly.

He got up, took his gun out of the holster and trod lightly down the stairs. Releasing the safety catch of the gun, he approached the kitchen door. He could see the silhouette of a—_woman?—_person with long hair on the stained glass. She tapped on the glass again.

"Mr. Simon?"

He knew he had heard her voice before. "Who's there?"

"Diane."

_Diane?_

"Diane Morrison." In a teary voice, she said, "I'm desperate. I don't know what to do."

Jumbled, disturbing images, brought on by recognition of her identity, flashed before his eyes as he reached for the doorknob. On the other side of the door stood Diane Morrison without a trace of makeup, disheveled and in distress. Her frizzy brown hair was a tangled mess. She seemed to have rolled out of her bed and come straight to his place.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Morrison? Something happen to your husband?"

She nodded. "He… he took my Danny…" She could no longer hold back her tears.

"He? You mean, Lance Whitaker? He abducted your husband?"

She only sobbed openly burying her face in his chest.

S&S S&S

Rick rounded the last bend; he was in the homestretch. He was pleasantly tired and yearning for the comfort of his bed. He was about ten, fifteen yards from A.J.'s home when he saw someone in the headlight.

"A.J.?" He jammed on the brakes and jumped out of his pickup. "What the hell are you doing in the middle of the night? It's past two."

"Something came up. Sorry, I have to go now." A.J. said evasively.

"Something came up? Like what?"

"It's personal." A.J. was unusually terse.

"Personal, my ass!" Rick blew up in frustration. "You're dressed in dark clothes and a black hat. If it's not the outfit for a covert operation, I don't know what is. And if it's something personal, why are you packing heat?" Even after a night of drinking, Rick's PI senses had not been dulled enough to miss his brother's belt holster.

A.J. did not respond and opened the door of his Camaro. Rick grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"Damn it, A.J.! Don't do this to me. What's…"

He fell to the ground when A.J. sucker-punched him. He was dazed momentarily and had to stay on his back for a few seconds. When he was able to sit up, A.J. was already pulling out of the driveway.

Rick tried to jump back in his truck to follow his brother but realized the keys had fallen out of his hand when he had been knocked down. It took him a minute or so to find them in the dark, groping on hands and knees. By the time he got his keys back, it was too late to chase A.J. He cursed out loud and ran towards A.J.'s home hoping to find any clue.

Before he opened the kitchen door, Rick found a small, wadded piece of paper on the welcome mat. He smoothed it out and squinted to read what was on it: the direction to get to this very address. He traced it backwards to see where the starting point might be. It didn't help much—the first entry was one of the major thoroughfares.

He turned over the paper. As he had guessed, it was a receipt—one from a ubiquitous franchise supermarket. The information on the top included the name of the store, the date and time of transaction and which branch, or neighborhood location the purchase had been made. The geographic information triggered something in his memory. He had been in that neighborhood before. He closed his eyes and delved deeper into his memory reservoir.

_Danny Morrison!_ Rick's eyes flew open when the answer he'd been looking for finally came to him. This could mean only one thing—Lance Whitaker had resurfaced again, and that Danny or Diane Morrison had shown up at A.J.'s doorstep tonight asking for his help. But which one?

_Diane Morrison_. Rick was sure of it. Danny was a reporter and habitual note-taker, always carrying a little notebook and several pens. And he had been here a few times to discuss business over dinner and needed no direction.

It appeared Diane Morrison had received a phone call and jotted down the driving direction to get here on the back of the receipt. But who called, Danny or Whitaker?

Rick took another look at the receipt. It was dated the day before. Well, technically two days ago as it was past 2:00 a.m.

_The Morrisons are back in their old neighborhood?_ Danny had temporarily moved his family to an undisclosed location around Christmas last year after a couple of close calls with Whitaker. He had been lying low but staying close to the San Diego area to keep working on his projects; however, he kept moving from one motel to the next. Rick hastily looked up and dialed Danny's home phone number. The line had not been disconnected but just rang and rang with no one to pick it up.

_If she was here tonight, she's most likely to be on her way back home_, speculated—hoped—Rick. There was only one way to find out. He ran back to his pickup and gunned the engine.


	2. Chapter 2

_The day Danny Morrison walked into his office, Rick didn't think much of him as a prospective client. He didn't come across as a rich man with deep pockets and appeared average as an average guy could be, leading an average—and boring—life. _

_Danny had straw-colored hair, somewhat similar to A.J.'s, but the similarity between them ended there. While his brother was attractive, youthful, urbane with refined social skills, Danny was homely with a tanned, deeply lined face that had prematurely aged from long hours of manual labor under the sun and socially awkward, showing every bit of his Iowa farm boy roots. Naturally, it came as a surprise for Rick when Danny revealed he was an investigative reporter._

_His request of service was even a bigger surprise. Rick had pegged him as an insecure husband—he was wearing a wedding band—that was fretting over his wife's frequent and unexplained outings. What Danny wanted, however, was a leg up in his crime investigation._

"_Have you been following a couple of stabbing…assault/homicide cases? Two young women were killed, one in La Mesa and the other in Valencia Park?" Danny inquired tentatively._

"_I know of them," replied A.J. "What I read and heard in the media is the extent of my knowledge though."_

_Danny nodded._

"_Are you working for the victims' families, or doing the consultation work for the police?" Rick asked. _

"_Not really. I did a lot of freelance work in the past, but right now, I'm working for a local TV station." Danny identified the station and which program he was assigned to. "As you can see, I'm not exactly TV material, and I don't aspire to be. So I do the legwork and the talking-heads do the reporting on TV."_

"_What would you like us to do for you then, Mr. Morrison?" asked A.J._

"_Please call me Danny. No one calls me Mr. Morrison except my boys' friends." Danny smiled shyly. "And before I get into the nature of work I'd like you to perform, let me tell you more about what I found."_

_Rick and A.J. nodded their heads in unison._

"_As you may know already, those two cases I mentioned may or may not be connected according to the police but they don't want to announce it to the public prematurely without any proof. They have certain similarities such as the choice of weapon, but the MOs are not quite the same."_

"_One of the victims was sexually assaulted while the other had been tortured for hours, maybe days before she was killed but not raped," recalled A.J._

"_That's right."_

"_What made the police believe those cases are related?" asked Rick._

_Danny licked his lips. "Well, you know they routinely ask the media not to release certain information in every crime investigation."_

"_Yes, and we will keep anything you tell us confidential whether you hire us or not," said A.J. _

"_Oh, I'm… I'm not doubting your professionalism," Danny stammered blushing. He then said to Rick, "To answer your question: missing body parts."_

"_You mean the perpetrator has a fetish?" asked A.J._

"_Probably not." Danny seemed ill at ease talking about his investigation. "It's more like keeping trophies. Whoever committed these crimes took the right little finger from one victim, the left ear from the other."_

_A.J. seemed as repulsed as Rick felt._

"_Last month, I had to take some time off and go see my folks in Las Vegas when my father had a bypass surgery. I had a lot of idle time at the hospital and at my parents' home waiting for his recovery. And that's how I stumbled upon a few articles and TV reports on unsolved homicide cases in the area."_

"_With similar but not identical MOs? Missing body parts?" Rick asked._

"_Yes, the MOs are similar, but the police wouldn't talk to me in detail about the cases, and the local law prohibits the full release of autopsy reports to the media."_

"_So, you want us to go to Vegas to poke around?" _

"_Maybe in the near future, but I have something more to tell you," Danny said to Rick with a smile. "I hadn't been able to gather enough information on the murder investigations in Las Vegas before I came back, but I started to see a different angle to look at our cases here."_

"_That the perpetrator could be a serial killer wandering from state to state?" _

_Danny nodded to A.J. "Yes. So I widened my search along the I-5 corridor—Oregon, Washington. I also checked Idaho as well." He paused and took his notebook out of his shirt pocket. "There are two similar unsolved murder cases in Oregon, three in Washington, five in Idaho, and two other cases in other parts of California."_

"_Why don't you alert the local authorities so that they'll be able to compare notes and work together?" A.J. looked puzzled._

"_I said the same thing to the producer of the show and the network CEOs, but they dismissed the idea saying that there's no clear evidence to connect all the cases." Danny's face was becoming flushed with indignation perhaps. _

_Rick and A.J. shook their heads sympathetically. They knew the pooh-bahs at the TV station were reluctant to cooperate with the police because they were after a big scoop and high rating._

"_But they're willing to fund my research. As a matter of fact, money's no object."_

"_They want a splashy, exclusive coverage, huh?" Rick secretly hoped that a portion of the funding would be diverted to fatten his wallet._

_Danny nodded unhappily. "What I would like you to do is prove some or all of the murders that took place in these states were committed by the same individual. When you gather enough evidence, I want you to go straight to the police."_

_Danny's face was set in defiance and anger. "I don't care if I get fired for that."_

_Rick realized that, although they did not look alike, Danny and A.J. shared the same ethical standards and integrity._

"_I want you to stop this subhuman before he kills again." Suddenly, Danny's stern countenance crumbled. "In one of the cases in Idaho, a young boy was killed, and he was… He was scalped."_

"_Good Lord!" Horrified, A.J. cried out. _

"_All right, let's get it started right away." Rick said. "We'd like to take a look at whatever you have on the cases you mentioned."_

_Danny nodded. "Come to the station with me. I'll give you a whole set of copies of my research data."_

_Shortly after that, the three of them left the office of Simon & Simon Investigations, driving towards the westering sun._

S&S S&S

When Rick arrived at the Morrisons', the house was cloaked in the darkness; no porch light, no night lights for the two young boys. He killed the engine and got out of the pickup. Should he pick the lock and see what he'd find in the house?

Then he heard someone, a woman, sobbing quietly somewhere inside—maybe in the living room.

He tapped on the front door softly and announced himself in a low voice. "Mrs. Morrison? Rick Simon."

The sobbing stopped abruptly, but no one came to answer the door.

"Mrs. Morrison… Diane. Please let me in. I know you're in there." His request was met with silence. "Listen, if you don't open this door, I'm coming in. I know you went to see my brother tonight…"

Before he could say any more, he heard the distinctive sound of the door chain and the deadbolt getting disengaged.

The door cracked open revealing one of Diane Morrison's hazel eyes. It was bloodshot and puffy from crying.

"Diane, you've got to tell me what you said to A.J." He demanded. "Where did he go? What happened to your husband? And don't even think about lying—I'll know."

Diane's lower lip trembled, but nothing came out of her mouth.

"Has Danny been kidnapped? Did Whitaker call you tonight?"

She nodded and lowered her head, breaking the eye contact. Tears started to fall anew. Out of the blue, a cold fist of devastating insight hit him in the gut.

"Did he… Did Whitaker give you the direction to A.J.'s and instruct you to tell him he'd have to come alone?"

"Yes…" She whispered hoarsely, eyes downcast.

Lance Whitaker was not only murderous but also highly intelligent—a lethal combination for a criminal. He knew how tough it was to have the Simon brothers on his tail. They had almost caught him six months ago. So instead of facing them together, he seemed to have devised a divide-and-conquer plan. He was also a vengeful man, Rick recalled with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Rick felt sudden and irrational anger towards everyone: A.J. for shunning him, Danny for getting him and his brother involved in this, Diane for sending A.J. to the violent lunatic, but most of all, he was angry with himself for leaving emotionally vulnerable A.J. at home by himself tonight. Had he been with his brother, he never would have let him go to face the sadistic serial killer alone.

"Mom? Who're you talkin' to?"

A young voice startled both Rick and Diane. She quickly wiped her tears.

"Is Uncle A.J. back with Dad?"

"No, Kenny. It's Uncle Rick."

"Is he going to help Dad too?"

She told her son a lame lie trying to send him back to bed. Kenny was the older of her two boys, a smart, thoughtful ten-year-old like A.J. used to be at his age.

A.J. had always been the bright one, Rick freely admitted without bitterness. His brother was intelligent enough to be able to wage a battle of wits with Whitaker, but his compassion was also his vulnerability that his enemy could take advantage of. Whitaker was now manipulating A.J., who was unselfish to a fault and knew what it was like to lose a father at a very young age.

_Sick bastard!_ Rick bit his lower lip. "Diane, please listen to me. If… If something happens to my brother, he won't be able to bring your husband back. They need all the help they can get, or, at least mine." He carefully used a measured tone and neutral language not to frighten the boy who might be listening in on the adults' conversation somewhere inside though it didn't sound like Kenny was aware of the grave situation his father was in.

Diane finally lifted her face and looked at Rick, her eyes swimming in tears. After what felt like an interminable stretch of silence, she told him.

S&S S&S

A.J. parked his Chevy several blocks away from the shipyard—one of several that dotted the shoreline—where Whitaker had said he and Danny would be, according to Diane Morrison. He wanted to avoid being spotted when getting in. The gate was locked, but he was going to climb over the fence in order to set foot in the shipyard regardless of the accessibility anyway.

It was relatively small compared to other shipyards and did not have enough space for building huge tankers, but A.J. could see several new luxury charter boats and super yachts in the works as well as a few in disrepair that cried out for a total makeover.

He knew full well he was walking into a trap, but he also knew not doing so would mean, without a doubt, a death sentence for Danny Morrison.

_I may be able to get the upper hand if I sneak in and check the layout of the place before Whitaker sees me._

He tried to talk himself into buying the idea, but, of course, he was only kidding himself. There was more than a good chance Whitaker would claim two lives instead of one before dawn; however, A.J. could not let Danny die as the result of his non-action and indifference.

Scaling the chain-link fence, he looked around to see if the security guards were making their rounds. Seeing none, he began searching Warehouse No. 13. Whitaker surely had a sick sense of humor.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he caught a glimpse of a couple of still forms lying on the shadowy ground. At first, he feared he was looking at a couple of guard dogs sleeping on the job, but soon he realized they were neither sleeping nor breathing.

He cautiously took several more steps forward for a closer inspection. What he saw sickened and enraged him; the dogs—huge Doberman Pinchers—were butchered with apparently a large knife. One was eviscerated, its intestines hanging out of its abdominal cavity. The other's throat was slashed so deeply it was almost decapitated.

Near the carcasses, there were small chunks of steak: uneaten portions of their last meal laced with sedatives.

_At least, they didn't suffer._

A.J. wanted to believe the poor dogs had been unconscious when Whitaker had started cutting. He knew, however, there was no way he and Danny would be so lucky.


	3. Chapter 3

_When they walked into the data room, the sheer volume of reports overwhelmed Rick and A.J. _

"_Jesus, what the hell did you do? Ordered all the available public records from several states?" Looking hopelessly at heaps of documents in folders, binders and boxes, Rick wondered where to begin._

"_Something like that," grinned Danny. "We have every scrap of information on the homicide cases involving stabbing from California, Nevada, Oregon, Washington and Idaho, passenger manifests dated a few days before and after the murders from the airlines that have services to the cities where the crimes occurred, car rental records from those places, among other things."_

"_Have you gone through all of it?" Just thinking about reading all of it made Rick's head spin._

"_Lucky us, we have quite a few interns who are willing to perforce mind-numbing tasks for peanuts, or just for credit." _

"_Have you got anything promising?" asked A.J._

"_Unfortunately, no." Danny's shoulders sagged a little. "We found some names that are on the manifest and the rental records, but after checking their backgrounds, none of them seems to be the one we're looking for. They're just retired couples on vacation, young families visiting their kin, corporate executives on business trips…"_

"_Why do you think the perp used rental cars for his crimes?" Rick scratched his forehead._

"_Because there are several different sets of tire marks found at the crime scenes, according to the police reports."_

_A.J. cocked his head analyzing the new information. "It could be that he mounted different sets of tires to throw off the investigators."_

"_Or, maybe he has several cars," added Rick. "It's not unusual for a car enthusiast to own and work on multiple cars."_

"_Whoever this guy is, he's doing a darned good job throwing off the investigators," said Danny glumly. "He's obviously intelligent enough to know what's safe to leave at a crime scene and what's not."_

_He saw the brothers looking at him questioningly and continued, "The crime lab was able to collect the assailant's semen sample from the rape victim, but he is the non-secretive type, so the police haven't been able to determine his blood type. He must know he's non-secretive because he's careful enough not to leave other incriminating evidence such as fingerprints, footprints, weapons…"_

"_Since you have more manpower, I'll let you and your interns take care of the airlines and car rental records," said A.J. "But as you said before, all the murders took place on and near the I-5 corridor, so there's a good chance that the killer is driving his car, or cars."_

"_Yeah, I know…" Danny sounded deflated._

"_Meanwhile, we'd like to get the police reports, including autopsy reports if available." A.J. smiled reassuringly. "What have you found so far?" _

"_Assuming that all these murders were committed by the same individual, he's clever without a doubt, never repeating the same MO, but he apparently loves knives. He never uses the same knife twice though, judging by the shapes and sizes of the wounds. All the victims sustained multiple stab wounds, and none of them died quickly." Danny frowned as if he had tasted something foul. "The perimortem wounds indicate the missing body parts were taken…"_

"_At, or near the time of death," A.J. completed the reporter's sentence._

_Danny nodded. "The victims were killed elsewhere and dumped like garbage. The detectives assigned to the cases don't know where the actual crime scenes are."_

"_Any suspect so far?" asked Rick._

_Danny shook his head. "Not even one in all five states." With his mouth set in determination, he added, "I'm not asking you to perform miracles, but I want you to take a best shot at this. I want this sadistic killer locked up and the key thrown out."_

_With the help of a couple of interns, the brothers loaded several boxes of the investigation reports in A.J.'s Camaro and drove back to their office._

S&S S&S

Rick drove like a maniac through the streets of San Diego, running red lights whenever he could get away with it. And yet, he had to be careful not to be snared by a cop looking for a speeder or a DUI driver.

Fortunately, there was little traffic in the pre-dawn hours, and he could easily spot a cop car if there was one. Another lucky break was that the Morrisons' was somewhere between A.J.'s home and the shipyard where Whitaker was allegedly holding Danny.

Rick did some mental math—with his stop at the Morrisons' and A.J. getting a head start, he was probably ten minutes behind his brother at the most. Since he had been driving way over speed limits, he might have shaved a couple of more minutes.

Of course, a lot could happen in several minutes, but Rick did not let himself dwell on pessimism and despair. The shipyard was only about half a mile away. The smell of salt water was getting stronger.

All of a sudden, the engine of his Power Wagon began sputtering. Even before his eyes fell on the dashboard, Rick realized that the truck was running out of gas. He had intended to refuel on the way home tonight but forgotten about it.

A stream of obscenities poured out of his mouth as he scanned around the area. Seeing no gas stations nearby, he jumped out of the truck and started running.

S&S S&S

A.J. moved closer to the next warehouse while hiding in the dark like a creature of the night. Rows and rows of buildings for variety of purposes—offices, shops, garages as well as warehouses—stood in no discernible order. Warehouse No. 2, for instance, stood right next to Warehouse No.5. He spent good five minutes or more meandering through the shipyard, looking for the right building.

Warehouse No. 13 turned out to be one of the buildings closest to the moorage. A.J. wondered why he had not seen it sooner for the lights inside and outside of the building had been turned on, and it was glowing like a lighthouse guiding lost ships and souls.

_So much for sneaking in._ Disheartened, he let out a sigh. There was no way he could slip inside undetected.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he quickened his pace to enter the well-lit warehouse, which somehow reminded him of a carnival fun house_. I used to get scared and have a nightmare after visiting a fun house, or house of horrors_, he recalled. Experiencing childish fears was one thing, but this time, he had every right to be afraid.


	4. Chapter 4

_For two days and two nights, Rick and A.J. had pored over the crime and medical reports on the stabbing/murder cases. One night, they had dinner at the Morrisons' then invited Danny for a nightcap at A.J.'s. _

_Danny looked rather embarrassed when he told them his superiors had been pressuring him to wrap up the investigation._

"_My producer would like to air this report in a few weeks' time regardless of the status of your investigation," said he mortified. "He also wants you guys on the show, you know, to provide your professional opinions on these cases."_

"_Sure. A little free advertisement for our agency won't hurt," said Rick to put Danny at ease, but it was obvious what the producer, whom they had met at the station, really wanted was putting the image of photogenic A.J. on the screen to boost the rating. _

_The brothers promised Danny to do their best to come up with some sort of lead or breakthrough._

_While they were reading the case files the following night, they came up with several scenarios and likely suspects and tossed the ideas back and forth._

"_What do you think this guy's like?" Rick was more or less wondering aloud reclining on the couch in A.J.'s living room._

"_The SDPD psychiatrists portray him as a stereotypical serial killer: white male, between twenty and forty, loner, possibly a latent homosexual who subconsciously hates women."_

"_But you don't think so?"_

_A.J. shrugged. "I'm not sure if he's a misogynist. The victims are both males and females, and though they all got stabbed multiple times, they don't look like random stabbings in the heat of passion or hatred, but instead, they seem controlled and carefully planned ahead, so he'd be able to prolong the lives and the suffering of the victims."_

"_So, you think the guy's a real psycho."_

"_Or, maybe a sociopath. He's sane enough to pass for a normal guy and smart enough to elude the police investigation."_

"_Great," said Rick sarcastically. "In that case, he probably won't be able to use Twinkie Defense if he gets collared."_

"_He obviously has a strong fixation on knives though."_

"_Yeah, he may be a collector, you know. According to the police reports from several cities, they checked local sporting goods stores to see if anyone had bought knives similar to the ones used in their cases before the murders. In a few, there had been leads, but those who bought the knives all have solid alibis."_

"_It just means that he's not dumb enough to buy the weapon for his crime near the crime scene."_

"_Yeah. And unlike guns, knives are harder to trace, and you don't need a license for getting one. And I bet this guy likes knives 'cause he's a real sicko who enjoys watching his victim suffer."_

_A.J. nodded in agreement. "Why do you think he travels but remains in the West Coast area?"_

"_Familiarity for one. And maybe…" Rick had to think for a while to list another reason. "Maybe he's loaded and has homes and properties in several states." _

"_I don't know about that," said A.J. refuting Rick's theory. "If he's so rich, why doesn't he have homes in other parts of the country? Danny couldn't find similar cases in other regions."_

_Frustrated, Rick growled. "You're the smart one in our family. You oughta be able to find some kind of clue somewhere in these reports."_

"_You're the devious one among us—you should be able to think like him," shot back A.J., grinning._

_Still grumbling, Rick reached out and grabbed another folder. It was the one that he had tossed aside initially. Unlike the others, the victim in this case had been found in a shallow grave in a remote area. Wild animals and later a hunter in the forest found the remains, or, most of them. He scanned the police report then moved on to the medical examiner's report. A notation made by the ME caught his eye, which prompted him to go back to the police report._

"_A.J.?" Rick saw his brother look up from his reading material. "Have you read this report from Idaho?"_

_A.J. shook his head 'no.'_

"_This is an odd one—the victim was buried, not dumped, in Boise National Forest. And the ME found a chip of the blade used in the crime embedded in one of the ribs."_

"_And?" A.J. looked like a hunting dog that had picked up the scent of the game it'd been tracking._

"_The crime lab analyzed the metal and found the composition of the alloy unique."_

"_You mean it's not from a mass-produced knife?"_

_Rick nodded. "That's right. It's probably handmade by a craftsman, not from a factory."_

_A.J. became noticeably excited. "Where or how do you get a knife like that besides from a specialty store?"_

"_Um, by mail-order. You can find some ads in the hobby and hunting magazines."_

"_Or, at a gun and knife show…"_

_Rick and A.J. were stuck by a sudden jolt of epiphany and stared at each other in stunned silence. They were precisely on the same wavelength._

"_Knife shows, knife shows, of course! Why didn't I think of this sooner?" said A.J. breathlessly._

"_He's not a collector..." _

"…_but a craftsman…" _

"…_on the knife show circuit!" Rick could no longer contain his excitement. "It all makes perfect sense! He drives up and down the I-5 corridor and beyond hawking the wares he makes at knife shows!"_

"_And he buried the victim in Boise to hide the only evidence that could be traced back to him when he pulled out his knife and saw it chipped."_

_A.J. was equally electrified as his brother and grabbed the phone on the counter._

"_Danny? This is A.J. Sorry to call you at home this late, but we'd like you to gather more information on our case." He paused to listen for a few moments. "Yes. Check the towns and cities near the victims were found to see if they had a knife, or a gun and knife show shortly before or after the murder… Yes, that's right. And, this is very important—we need the list of knife manufacturers and vendors who set up a booth at each show, but we're mostly interested in individuals, not manufacturers."_

_Rick could hear Danny's very excited voice yammering on the other end of the phone. _

"_Don't get too excited, Danny," said A.J. playing the role of pragmatist. "This is just a lead, or a hypothesis at the moment, nothing more. We need some evidence to back it up. Most of all, we have to come up with the shortlist of the suspects." _

_More yammering from Danny's end._

"_Yes. Yes, thank you. We'll be waiting for your call." A.J. hung up the phone._

"_What did he say?" asked Rick._

"_A day, maybe two or three at the most."_

_The brothers wondered whether they could afford to wait that long in order to prevent another killing._

S&S S&S

Rick's heart was knocking hard against his ribcage, his lungs and legs burning, but he did not slow his pace. He was a possessed man. He was barely aware of the sting of sweat in his eyes, or a sharp side stitch as his feet kept moving in the rhythmic motion.

Suddenly, he stopped running when he had a glimpse of A.J.'s Camaro. He hurried over to the vehicle and touched the hood; it was still hot. Sure, it would take the engine a few hours to cool down completely, but it was hot, not just warm.

_So, the shipyard is only a few blocks away_.

He resumed running.

S&S S&S

Standing near the entrance, A.J. scanned the interior of Warehouse No. 13, looking for any sign of Whitaker, or Danny. At the far end, there was a simple student chair, which seemed out of place. A small, black object that looked like a phone receiver sat on it.

_Walkie-talkie?_

As if to confirm his assessment, the walkie-talkie crackled and came to life. "What took you so long to get here, Simon?"

A.J. looked around sharply and found no one. Whitaker must be observing him from a place nearby, or via security video.

"Pick up the receiver," ordered Whitaker.

Pushing the 'speak' button, A.J. asked, "Where's Danny?"

"He's here, resting uncomfortably," snickered Whitaker.

"I'm here, so let him go."

"You know that's not the way it works," said Whitaker tauntingly. "First, I'll make sure that you came here alone. Then you surrender your weapons and abandon any hope you might have."

"Before I do any of these things, you have to let me speak with Danny."

"Fine," said Whitaker curtly.

A.J. heard some movements and the sound of a door opening.

"Danny? Danny? Are you there?"

A moment or two passed before he heard the reporter speak haltingly, "Yes, I'm here."

"Are you all right? Where are you?"

"I'm…okay," said Danny though he sounded anything but. "I don't know where I am. Can't see anything…"

"What do you mean, you can't see anything? Are you blindfolded, or…"

"That's enough." Whitaker cut him off. "Now you know he's alive. If you want to keep him that way, you're required to listen carefully and follow my orders to a tee. No deviations allowed."

"What do you want me to do?" A.J. asked.

Whitaker laughed humorlessly. "My, my. I've never met a man who's so eager to get acquainted with my trusted HK105."

A.J. assumed he was referring to his favorite hunting knife.

"Just in case you're hatching a plan to do anything cute, I want you to know your friend here will be dead if I don't come back here in two hours and some change."

A.J. heard the tick-tock sound of a clock on the radio.

"Hear that?"

"Yes." A.J. was not in a chatty mood.

"Good. If anything happens to me, you'll never be able to find the reporter before the bomb goes off," said Whitaker smugly.

"So, what do you want?" A.J. asked again.

"Such impatience," Whitaker mocked him clucking his tongue. "All right. I want you to step out of the warehouse and lie face down spread-eagle on the ground, and don't move a muscle until I get there. Then we're going get intimately acquainted. See you in a few."

A.J. heard Whitaker walking away, so, as instructed, he went outside, got down on his knees and lay on the ground. He also began counting in order to get some sense of time. The time Whitaker would spend to get here might help him determine the location where Danny was being held.

_If I can stay alive that long…_

He wondered if he was counting down towards his own demise.


	5. Chapter 5

_Rick and A.J. spent the next forty hours after the call to Danny Morrison to take care of other aspects of their work, but their hearts and minds were on the serial murderer. They were in their office when Danny's call finally came in._

"_Simon & Simon. This is…" Rick grimaced yanking the phone away from his left ear. "Whoa, whoa! Take it easy, Danny. You almost ruptured my eardrum there."_

_A.J., who had been crunching numbers, dropped the receipts and the calculator and picked up the receiver of the phone on his desk. "Danny, what's the matter?"_

"_My crew and I found seven independent vendors who attended all the knife shows near the crime scenes, and now I know for sure one of them is the killer!"_

"_Hey, calm down, Danny, and back up a little bit, will ya?" Rick said. "What else did you find in addition to those seven vendors' names? And how come you're so sure one of them is our guy?"_

"_Once we got their names, we started making calls to obtain the background information on them. Before I told my staff not to make direct contact with them, one of the interns did just that, announcing our station and program. She even informed them she was working for me."_

_Rick and A.J. groaned simultaneously. "What happened then?" asked Rick. _

"_Someone broke into our office early this morning. One of the producers walked into my office to get some document and found a man going through my files. When he yelled at him, he was attacked with a knife."_

"_Oh, no! Is he all right?" asked A.J._

"_Yes. Luckily, a security guard was nearby and rushed to the scene when he heard the commotion. The intruder fled seeing the guard armed with a gun. Darryl, the producer, had a couple of gashes, but he got stitches and is doing fine—physically."_

"_That's good to hear," said Rick. "Listen, can we come over to your office to get the latest information? We can get there in…"_

"_I'm not at the station, Rick. I'm calling from home."_

"_Home? What are you doing there?" Rick frowned._

"_Diane called shortly before noon. She was freaking out because our neighbor had told her that someone had been casing our place."_

"_What? Are you sure it was a stakeout?" asked A.J._

"_The neighbor who spotted an unfamiliar vehicle is a retired police detective. He says it was parked across the street from our home, and he noticed there was a man behind the wheel, but all he did was keeping an eye on my place. So, he approached the stranger, identified himself and asked him if he was lost and needed help. According to Bernie, the retired cop, the man didn't say much and sped off."_

"_What did this stranger look like?" asked A.J._

"_A Caucasian, between thirty and forty with a hat and sunglasses. Bernie got the license plate number and asked his buddy at his old precinct to run it, but it turned out that it belongs to a stolen vehicle."_

_Rick groaned with frustration. "What about the guy at the office? Did anyone get a good look at him?"_

"_He had a ski mask and a pair of gloves on. Medium height and weight. Or, that's what the guard says. Darryl claims he was six-four, two twenty—at least."_

"_Listen, Danny," said A.J. "Can you find a place for your family to stay for a week or two? Just to be on the safe side?"_

"_I'm ahead of you, A.J. As a matter of fact, I'm here helping Diane and the kids pack their bags right now. School's out for a Christmas break, so I'll just send three of them to Diane's folks' in…"_

"_No, don't." Rick interrupted Danny. "Your folks' or hers' is the first place to look if someone's trying to track your family. Do you have a friend, or a distant cousin who can take your family in for a few weeks?" _

"_Well, let's see… Um, I think a friend of mine in San…"_

"_Hey, you don't have to tell us. As a matter of fact, don't tell anyone—keep it between you and Diane."_

"_But could you do us a favor?" A.J. asked. _

"_Sure. I suppose you want a copy of the list of suspects."_

"_Yes. Could you call your office to let them know that we're coming over to get the list as well as all the background information you've gathered so far?"_

"_Will do. And I'll get in touch with you later, but if you want to reach me, the best bet is my office. I think I'm gonna lie low for a while too."_

"_Good idea," said Rick approvingly. "We'll be in touch. Meanwhile, be safe."_

_Hanging up their phones, the Simon brothers made a beeline for the latest findings at the TV station._

S&S S&S

Rick scaled the chain-link fence of the shipyard at breakneck speed although he had run half a mile like an Olympian. He had never been this agile on the obstacle course at the Corps boot camp.

He had been here before; his poker buddy had had his charter boat refurbished here and invited him to show it off just before the completion of the project. The layout of the buildings was screwy, and Earl, his buddy, had had to get a copy of the shipyard map to navigate them from point A to point B although he had been there several times before.

Rick recalled Warehouse No. 13 was near the moorage because it was the closest building structure from the dock where Earl's boat had been moored.

He kept on moving in the dark surefooted until he came upon the dog carcasses. He instantly recognized them.

_Mickey! Minnie! _

He saw red at the sight of the slaughter. When he had first seen these dogs, they had been barely a year old, still very much in the puppy stage and playful and affectionate.

_Maybe too affectionate to be a couple of guard dogs._

They had been just a pair of rambunctious puppies, canine equivalents of goofy teenagers. Their ridiculously cutesy monikers had been no help either.

Their looks, however, had made up for what they had lacked in the personality department: big even for a Dobie, lean and muscular. Simply put, they were scary-looking—or, had been.

He gently laid his hand on Mickey's cold body as if to say the final good-bye, and as he leaned over, he noticed two sets of bloody shoe prints on the ground. One of them was bloodier and clearer but disappeared as though the man, who had left the tracks, had suddenly sprouted wings and flown off while walking away from the crime scene.

_Or, jumped in his car and drove off._

The other set was fainter probably because the dogs had been dead for some time when this person—_A.J_.—had happened upon them, and that the blood had started to coagulate.

Rick stood up and resumed his pursuit.

S&S S&S

A.J. was wondering how much longer he would have to wait when he heard the sneering voice of Whitaker, "You've been a good boy, Simon. Don't get up just yet though."

If A.J. had kept time correctly, roughly five minutes had passed since their last communication.

_Does that mean Danny's in one of the buildings about five minutes from here? Or, was Whitaker just trying to wait and see if I am alone?_

As he wondered, he felt Whitaker's hands on his body, patting him down for any concealed weapon. His snub nose was visible in his belt holster, and it was picked up before the pat-down started. He had taped a switchblade on his ankle before he had left home, but Whitaker did not miss it.

Confiscating the knife, Whitaker ordered A.J., "Now, on your knees."

Satisfied that A.J. had no more lethal weapons on him after further probe, Whitaker let him get up on his feet.

The serial killer was standing in front of him, just a few paces away; he looked thinner and had dyed his sandy hair black. He also had a chilling smile on his face, a hunting knife in his left hand.

_But he's right-handed_. A.J. could clearly recall the brief but intense few minutes of struggle with Whitaker blow by blow though six months had passed since then. _Does this mean…?_

"Yes, my right hand has partial paralysis," said Whitaker as if he had read his mind. "And I have your brother to thank for it. So, I have come up with so many different ways to reciprocate for his gift—and much, much more."

Suddenly, A.J. broke out in cold sweat when he realized that the sole purpose of Danny's kidnap was to lure and use him in order to bait Rick, so he would be able to torment and eventually kill him.

"But don't get your hopes up just because I'm a tad handicapped," Whitaker continued cheerfully. "A doctor in Mexico told me the paralysis could be temporary. And you can retrain your brain to regain some or all of the lost function. Stroke patients do that all the time. While I do the rehab work on my right hand, I get by with my left. It may not be as fine-tuned as my right used to be, but I can eat and write with it just fine." He paused for a brief moment. "And kill. You saw what I'm capable of, didn't you?"

A.J. pointedly refused to respond.

Whitaker's smile dissolved into a frown when the reference to his handiwork on the guard dogs did not get any reaction from the PI. "All right, let's go."

"No."

"No? What do you mean 'no'? I told you, if you don't follow my…"

"You know I came here alone and don't have any weapon, so you don't have to keep Danny any more. Let him go. Till then, I'm not going to budge. If you wanna kill me for it, go ahead." A.J. defiantly crossed his arms.

"Don't tempt me," growled Whitaker glaring at A.J. "Are you that naïve, or are you not as smart as I thought you were?"

Seeing his captive standing his ground, Whitaker impulsively offered a compromise. "Fine, I'll let him go." Before A.J. could say a word, he added, "If you agree to my terms and conditions, that is."

"Tell me."

Whitaker looked around trying to come up with a game plan. After a few moments, he nodded to himself. "Okay. See that old vessel over there?" He pointed at a luxury yacht that was obviously in for the long overdue repair, or extensive refurbishing.

"We're going to climb aboard and play a little game. If you last an hour, I'll let the reporter go." His unpleasant smirk returned on his face.

"All right," A.J. reluctantly agreed.

The old yacht was called Sea Breeze, and the name was the best feature of it. It was in such disrepair, compared to it, Rick's boat looked like a luxury cruise ship.

Whitaker put his hand on the ladder resting on the gunwale and said, "After you."

Climbing up the ladder, A.J. wondered if he had received a reprieve or signed on his own execution order by agreeing to the killer's proposal.


	6. Chapter 6

_Danny's assistant was waiting for Rick and A.J. at the reception area with a box full of documents. He informed them that, per Danny's instruction, he had made two sets of everything for their convenience. They did not want to waste any more time and started digging in right there in the parking lot, sitting in A.J.'s Camaro._

_They eagerly read the shortlist; there were seven names as Danny had mentioned. They eliminated two of them right off the bat because they were women. They rejected two more after reading their background information. One was in his late sixties, and the other was a paraplegic confined to a wheelchair. _

_So, now only three names remained: Andrey Grigoryev, Makoto 'Mac' Tomita, and Lance Whitaker. Rick and A.J. reviewed the data including the DMV records with the suspects' ID photos. _

_The first one of the remaining three suspects, Grigoryev, lived in Moscow, Idaho and had criminal records: a few DUI charges, domestic violence reduced to a misdemeanor charge after a plea bargain. His crimes were limited to misdemeanors with no felony convictions. His probation period had ended five years ago. _

_Tomita, whose mailing address was in San Francisco, had been a suspect for several drug trafficking cases but never been charged. It was also rumored that he was loosely affiliated with a faction of a certain yakuza group. Extensive tattoos, which adorned most of his body, might have started the rumor._

_The last one, Whitaker, operated out of Carlsbad and had no rap sheet, not even a traffic citation. Having grown up in a privileged upper-middle-class lifestyle, he had left high school in La Jolla after receiving a GED at fifteen. His former school counselor had noted that he was exceptionally bright but aloof with no friends. _

"_So, what do you think?" asked Rick as he continued to read._

"_I don't think Grigoryev is the guy we're looking for," replied A.J. while still formulating his idea. "The killer we're after is intelligent and a meticulous planner. He kills his victims methodically, never out of control. Grigoryev doesn't seem to fit the bill. He doesn't have that kind of self-control."_

"_Yeah, I guess you're right. He can't control his anger and drinking." Rick agreed. "What about this Tomita guy though? He may be a member of yakuza. Those Japanese gangsters are known to cut off fingers, aren't they?" _

"_Yeah, but they cut off their own digits, not someone else's. It's a form of apology when they err or shame their organization. And their violence is usually contained within the yakuza circle. It's mostly turf wars among rival groups."_

_Rick nodded. "Besides, Danny's neighbor said the guy that was hanging around the Morrisons' was white, so that pretty much eliminates Tomita."_

_The Simons fell silent for a moment to consider the third and last suspect._

"_Well, this could be it," said Rick softly. "Whitaker's white, thirty-nine, aloof, fits the description of the serial killer the psychiatrists came up with to a tee, and most of all, he's real smart. And his parents seem to be comfortable financially and able to support him if necessary, so that means, he probably doesn't have to work his fingers to the bone to make ends meet. That allows him to have a lot of spare time to do whatever he wants."_

_A.J. nodded in agreement. "The DMV record indicates he's five-ten, one-sixty-five—medium build like the guy who broke into Danny's office if you believe the guard's description, and I do. He knows he can't afford to attract the police officers' attention when he's on the road by speeding or some other traffic violation because, I assume, he carries the tools for his crime, in addition to the knives he sells, in the back of his van. It well could be the crime scene for more than one murder."_

_The DMV record showed he owned a couple of large vans and a pickup. _

"_That's enough for me. Why don't we stop by his place?" Rick suggested._

"_His home, or shop?" _

_Whitaker ran a specialty shop called Carve Your Niche in downtown Carlsbad._

"_We'll decide on the way. C'mon, hit the road, Jackson."_

_Rick clapped his brother's back. A.J. turned the ignition key to head up north._

S&S S&S

Rick could see Warehouse No. 13 from quite afar—it looked like a gigantic Christmas tree though the rest were mere ghosts obscured in the dark. When he was only a couple of buildings down from it, he saw some movements away from the warehouse: a couple of dark figures by the mooring. Although he could not make out any recognizable features of the individuals, he knew he had to be looking at his brother and Lance Whitaker.

He almost swooned with relief seeing A.J. alive and well. He drew his piece from the shoulder holster and released the safety catch, but at this point, he could not tell which one was which. And he would have to get much closer to be sure and have Whitaker in the range in this poor visibility condition.

The shadowy figures climbed the ladder on the side of the yacht and disappeared from the field of Rick's vision. Cursing, he ran as quickly and quietly as possible.

As he was about to pass the entrance of the warehouse, something, a certain sound, stopped him cold: the sound of someone breathing hard, or sobbing.

_Danny?_

Rick looked around and found a walkie-talkie receiver lying on the ground. Picking it up, he hid in the shadow and pressed the 'speak' button. "Hello? Danny? Is that you?" He whispered.

The man on the other end of the radio was definitely sobbing though Rick was not sure he was crying with joy or in pain.

"Hey, you gotta help me help you. Speak up. Tell me who and where you are."

"Rick…? It's me, Danny," came the answer between sobs.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not badly," replied Danny though he sounded like he was in a great deal of pain. "But there's a bomb here. Whitaker said it'd go off in two hours."

It felt as though a cold hand had just squeezed Rick's heart with its icy fingers. "You sure he wasn't bluffing?"

"He doesn't have to bluff, Rick. And I can hear the timer."

"Where are you, Danny?"

"I don't know." The reporter sounded like a little lost boy. "Whitaker taped over my eyes as soon as he put me in his car."

"Don't you have a clue? Do you remember anything that might give you some idea where you're at?"

Rick waited the longest few seconds.

"Look for a 75 Chevy Blazer. Whitaker drives the same model as my father's. He parked it somewhere close." Danny finally answered. "After we got off, we walked maybe twenty paces, entered this building and climbed down the stairs."

"That's good!" There were only a few buildings with a basement on the premises as far as Rick knew. They mostly housed office spaces, showrooms and conference rooms, and they were right behind the warehouse. The one with a 75 Blazer parked nearby should be where Danny was. "Anything else?"

"I think I'm in a closet, or a utility room, not a regular room; it's very small."

Rick could hear Danny moaning. "Danny, are you all right? What's Whitaker done to you?"

Danny panted a few times before he was able to answer, "I'm afraid he cut the tendon on my right ankle, you know, Achilles tendon. Then he treated the wound, put a dressing on it and gave me a couple of pain pills, so I was okay for a few hours, but it's been a while and the pain's coming back."

Whitaker was a sadist who got a kick out of inflicting pain on his victims. Killings were merely the byproduct of his perverse pleasure. Besides, Danny was just a pawn and trump card Whitaker needed in order to get A.J. to do what he wanted.

Rick glanced at the decrepit boat but could not see anyone on the deck. He was forced to make the most agonizing decision: which one should he save first, A.J. or Danny?

"Rick?" Danny sounded helpless, desperate and, most of all, scared. No, terrified.

"Yeah, I'm here. Don't worry. I'll come getcha, Danny, so hang in there just a while longer. Okay?"

As he spun around to start looking for the reporter, Rick could not help but take a long backward glance at the yacht. He wanted to go after Whitaker and help his brother more than anything, but if something happened to him and A.J., there would be no one else to rescue Danny. And A.J. was tough and resourceful enough to fend off Whitaker on his own for some time. Knowing that, however, did not alleviate the crushing guilt in Rick's heart.

_I'm not deserting you, little brother. You know that, don't you? I'll come back for you before you know it._

He wrenched his gaze from the yacht and started running, never looking back, blocking the unthinkable from his mind.

S&S S&S

A.J. turned around on the boat deck and saw Whitaker step over the top rung of the ladder with the knife clenched between his teeth like a pirate in some old black-and-white movie. The serial killer had the use of fingers on his right hand, but the thumb hung limp and useless.

Whitaker smirked when he caught the PI sneaking a glance at his right hand again. "Forget it, Simon. I told you, I can use my left hand quite well now," said he gripping the knife as if to prove it.

"What do you want me to do, Whitaker?" A.J. asked yet again.

"As I said, we're going to play a game."

"What kind of game?"

"It's a combination of tag and hide-and-seek. You know the rules, but our version has a few more," said Whitaker gleefully. "First, I'm it for the duration of the game. And you must remain aboard for the next one hour. Each time I catch you, there will be a penalty, but I feel generous—I'll let you choose which part of your body to be severed."

A.J. kept his stony face, but Whitaker could sense—almost smell—he was becoming increasingly unnerved. The killer was getting stoked like a hunter waiting in anticipation for a ten-point buck, or a bull elk. He was entertaining a delicious idea of sending back A.J. Simon to his brother piece by piece.

"If I were you, I'd plan on not getting caught too many times," said Whitaker tauntingly. "If you bleed too much, you might not last an hour."

"Is that all?" asked A.J. in defiance.

"Oh, wait. Just one more thing."

A.J. cried out in surprise and pain when Whitaker, without warning, stuck the knife in the meaty part of his thigh. As the PI stumbled, the killer pulled out the knife.

A.J. yanked his wool hat off and pressed it on the wound to stanch the bleeding.

The metallic smell of blood sent a shudder of pleasure up Whitaker's spine, making his pupils dilate with excitement.

"It's only fair now that we're both slightly handicapped," said he raising his right hand to make his point.

Still reeling in shock, A.J. was standing motionlessly like a deer in the headlight.

The predator stopped smirking and glared at his prey. "Now, go!"

The order lifted the spell A.J. seemed to have been under; he started limping as fast as he could.


	7. Chapter 7

_It was only several days before Christmas when Rick and A.J. Simone finally had a breakthrough while investigating a series of homicides. They arrived at Lance Whitaker's residence near the marina in Carlsbad. It was nicely maintained but not flashy. Just like its owner, it did not stand out among the rest._

_They had cruised by Whitaker's shop earlier and found it open. This might be the perfect opportunity for them to sneak in to look around while he was away from home. _

_They went around the house and found a backdoor that led to the mudroom. Rick had always thought his brother was a neat freak, but now A.J.'s home looked like a pigsty compared to Whitaker's. Some clichés like 'so clean you could eat off the floor,' went through Rick's mind, but there was more than cleanness to this place—sterile, foreboding… He summed it up in one word._

"_Creepy."_

"_What?" A.J., who was walking ahead of him, turned his head to his brother's utterance._

"_This place gives me the heebie-jeebies."_

_A.J. understood what Rick had meant. Everything in this house was in its rightful place, the living room carpet still had the vacuum cleaner tracks, the kitchen floor was sparkling clean and smelled of strong disinfectant. A model house had more lived-in feel than Whitaker's home. How could a living, breathing creature live in such a void that seemed to abhor life? _

"_Yeah, I know what you mean, but on the bright side, this should make our search easier." Grinning, A.J. tried to make light of it. "Wanna split?"_

"_Yeah, it's faster that way. I'll take upstairs," said Rick. "Keep an eye out, and let me know if you find anything."_

_He bounded up the stairs, anxious to find any clue or evidence for the serial murders. He was not surprised to find all the doors on the floor shut. He opened them to determine which room to search first. There were master and guest bedrooms and the bathroom._

_His first choice was the master bedroom. Just like downstairs, it was kept in an orderly fashion and spartan. A queen-size platform bed occupied the middle of the floor. Though he usually found most beds, regardless of size and condition, inviting, this one was not one of them._

_It reminded him of the bed the Marine Corps drill instructor had once made to demonstrate what he had expected from the new recruits during a morning inspection at the boot camp. Only, Whitaker's bed was even neater than the instructor's if that was possible. The folds of the cover so clean and crisp they looked like they had been pressed or ironed. This bed would pass any inspection by any drill instructor with flying colors. He doubted Whitaker's mother had ever found skin magazines stashed under the mattress of his bed in his teen years._

_There was nothing under the bed, so Rick perused the titles of the books in the bookcase next. The books were carefully arranged alphabetically first by the authors' last names then by the book titles if there were multiple books penned by the same author. The bottom three shelves out of six had rows of large binders. The first few were marked AMA on the spines._

American Medical Association?

_He opened one of the binders, and sure enough, it contained photocopies of newsletters and magazine articles published by none other than American Medical Association, sorted chronologically. Some lines and paragraphs were highlighted. From what he could see, Whitaker's interest lay in not only gross anatomy but also surgical techniques, psychiatry, pathology, pharmacology and more._

Just how smart is this guy?_ Rick wondered though he was not so sure if he really wanted to know the answer._

_He skipped the binders titled Alloy Compositions, Knives, Metallurgy and reached for the first of several with no title. When he opened it at random, a grainy picture of a pretty teenage girl jumped off the page. An article on a newspaper clipping taped on the page reported the gruesome discovery of her body just outside the city limits of Spokane, Washington. At the bottom of the page, some sort of card was taped on. He hunched over to have a closer look—it was the dead girl's learner's permit. She had just turned fifteen before she had met her violent death._

_Rick started turning the pages faster and faster. His breathing too became faster and shallower. For each murder, Whitaker kept a memento: a driver's license here, a gold chain necklace there…_

"_A.J.!"_

_As he called his brother's name, he heard a loud crash downstairs._

S&S S&S

Rick flew down the stairs of one of the office buildings in the shipyard. He had found a Blazer parked in the parking lot nearby.

On the basement level, there were a couple of large conference rooms on each side as well as the restrooms and the janitor's closet, but they were all empty. Was he in a wrong building?

He raised the walkie-talkie that he was still carrying and spoke into the mouthpiece, "Danny? Can you hear me?" He waited several seconds, but there was no answer. "Danny, answer me if you can. I think I'm in the right place, but I'm having trouble finding you. Are you sure…?"

"Rick?"

When Danny's voice came through the receiver, he heard some noise coming from one of the rooms down the corridor.

"Hey, I think I can hear you without the radio. Keep talkin'!"

As he quickened his pace, the noise turned into a faint human voice. Rick stopped in front of Conference Room 1. Danny's voice was coming from there though it was too low to make out individual words.

Turning on the lights, he stepped inside and surveyed the room. _Where the hell are you, Danny?_ Then he saw it hidden behind the slide projector on the cart: a door at the back corner. "Danny!"

He pushed aside the cart and yanked the door open. It was a storage room to keep A/V and other gadgets and materials for meetings. Rick found Danny in one corner sitting up against the wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back, but he had managed to get the walkie-talkie Whitaker had left in the room and find the 'speak' button by touch.

"Rick!" The reporter cried out and burst into tears with relief.

Rick ripped the duct tape over Danny's eyes off and lifted him gently but swiftly to his feet, or rather, one of his feet. "I gotcha, I gotcha," he softly repeated to comfort him. "All right, let's get the hell outa here."

Rick was quite adept at disabling explosives and electrical circuits and knew enough that a bomb assembled by an amateur was the worst and the most dangerous; it could be more powerful than intended, or a dud, the timer might go off too early or too late. In other words, it was highly unpredictable and unstable. Whitaker might be super smart, but his expertise was dissection and vivisection, not bomb-making.

Rick was tempted to use the elevator since he was supporting some of Danny's weight, but he took the stairs again just in case. If the bomb went off prematurely, the elevator was the last place you wanted to be in. When they got outside, he took a peek at the inside of the Blazer's cab.

_Stick shift. Damn it!_

With only one good foot, Danny would not be able to drive it.

He still had the handcuffs on him. Rick could pick the lock, but he did not waste time. He took off his jacket to use it as a makeshift muffler and shot the chain off the cuffs to free Danny's hands. It was a poor substitute for a real thing, but he managed to suppress the sound of the gun blast considerably. He hoped it had not been loud enough to reach Whitaker's ears. With A.J.'s life on the line, he didn't want to lose the element of surprise; it might be the only way to get the bastard.

But first, Rick needed to ensure Danny's safety, or everything he had done so far would be meaningless. Conference Room 1, in which the bomb had been placed, was situated on the south end of the office building.

"Danny, I gotta go find A.J.," said he calmly so as not to upset the reporter too much. "I know you have a bad leg, but I want you to hop or crawl north," he pointed to indicate which direction, "Go pass a couple of buildings and then get inside of any office where you can find a phone. Call the police and the ambulance and hide under a desk or table until they get here. Do you think you can do that?"

Danny nodded trembling. Eyes downcast in shame, he said, "I'm so sorry, Rick. If I…"

"Don't be," Rick cut him off by gripping his shoulders. "It wasn't your fault." He firmly said. "You go now and be careful. Okay?"

Seeing Danny hobbling away from his former prison, Rick started running again.

_No, it's not Danny's fault_, he told himself. _It's all mine 'cause I couldn't pull the trigger when I should have, when it really mattered most. If something should happen to A.J., his blood would be on my hands._

But he wouldn't let that happen, he vowed to himself. Never.

S&S S&S

"Ready or not, here I come!"

A.J. heard Whitaker yell excitedly somewhere near the helm of the yacht. It was a good-size vessel with multiple decks including the sun deck on the top, but it did not provide a lot of area to run about, or places to hide if necessary.

Not that he could run if he wanted to though. A sharp pain shot up his leg whenever he put his weight on his right foot. He could feel the blood seeping through the wool hat. He wondered if he had enough time to take off his jacket to use it as a temporary dressing or tourniquet. He did not want to leave a trail of blood to make it easier for Whitaker to track him.

He knew the spacious cabin on the lower deck had an aft entrance but wondered if it was a good idea to go inboard. On one hand, if it were the only egress, he would be trapped inside. On the other hand, if he should stay on the lower deck literally going around in circles with his injured leg, Whitaker would catch up with him sooner or later—much, much sooner than he would like. It was not an assumption but a stone-cold fact he had to face.

As he weighed the options, he heard Whitaker's footfalls rapidly approaching, which prompted him to step into the cabin instinctively.

Judging by its size, the yacht must have been a fantastic place to entertain dozens, if not hundreds, of guests. A.J. had no idea what had ravaged this once splendid vessel—maybe years of neglect, or a violent storm—but its heyday's glory was completely gone.

The interior of the cabin, which was big enough to be called salon, had been gutted—_like the poor guard dog_—and offered no place to hide. The only structure still standing was the spiral staircase in the middle of the floor. It was too late to back out of the salon, and A.J. had to take the only available alternative: going up.

The upper level had been a private quarter for the previous owner. It had a small anteroom and a stateroom with a bathroom and a closet. The staircase continued on to reach the sun deck above.

With a throbbing stab wound, he wished he could crawl into the closet or the bathtub and lie down to rest for a while, but if he did, Whitaker would find him in a matter of seconds. The only way to delay the inevitable was to be on the move.

In the corner of his mind, he had already begun to consider which part of his body he was willing to give up first: the left little finger, or the left little toe?


	8. Chapter 8

_A.J. wandered from room to room downstairs. Whitaker's living room was so sparsely furnished he was able to determine quickly that nothing significant was hidden there. _

_He thought about checking the kitchen or the bathroom next then remembered that Whitaker owned three vehicles. Could one or more of them be in the garage? He tried a couple of doors and found the one that led to the attached garage. _

_As he looked around, he was amazed. He had never seen a garage this tidy. All the tools hanging on the wall were sorted by their function and size. The floor was spotless and pristine as if the concrete had just been poured. The strangest thing was the place smelled of bleach—_and air freshener?_—instead of gasoline or grease. As expected, nothing was out of place. _

_A large van occupied one side of the two-car garage. He took a few steps toward the van but halted when he spotted a freezer at the back of the garage. It was a horizontal chest type and long, over five feet, approximately twenty inches deep._

That looks like a…_ He groped for a word to avoid the one he might have chosen under normal circumstances. _Like a sarcophagus._ He could not bring himself to even think the word, 'coffin.' He realized his feet were moving as though he were drawn to the freezer by an invisible string. His heart pounding, he lifted the lid._

_Halfway down the chest freezer was a tarpaulin folded in half resting on the bed of ice cubes. Under the top layer of the tarp, A.J. detected some bulges, some of which were too big to be just chunks of ice. He gingerly picked up a corner of the tarp and unfolded it._

_The moment Whitaker's hidden treasures were revealed, he leaped back involuntarily, and a small cry of horror and revulsion escaped from his mouth._

_From the bottom half of the tarp, among other body parts, a pair of mismatching, unseeing eyeballs—one green, the other, brown—stared up sightlessly at him. Right above the clouded eyes was a full head of fine, light brown hair still attached to scalp. In the place where the right hand should be, there were full five digits; the left was missing the thumb and the index finger. There were only one ear, one breast, a tongue and a few toes, all neatly wrapped in clear plastic film, each representing a different victim._

How many people has he murdered?

_Suddenly, the hairs on his nape stood up when he sensed someone's presence—stealthy presence—behind him._

_He whipped around in fright and saw just in time a man—_Whitaker!_—swinging down a large serrated knife at him._

_A.J. instinctively jumped back to avoid the full brunt of the attack, but he tripped as the back of his leg hit a corner of the freezer. His body teetered, and he started falling on his back at the worst moment when Whitaker was ready to strike again._

_Piles of boxes in the corner of the garage broke A.J.'s fall and scattered everywhere spilling their contents: knives of all sizes in sheaths. _

_Whitaker took another step forward, gleefully raising the knife he held in his hand. The PI that Danny Morrison had hired was literally cornered and half buried under the boxes. "Say your prayer, Simon."_

_A.J. frantically tried to reach for his gun in the belt holster but knew he wouldn't be fast enough. He was loosely encased in a mound of boxes, like sitting in a beanbag, which restricted his movement. His body froze as Whitaker's knife began to make its downward arc._

"_A.J.!"_

_Whitaker flinched when Rick yelled his brother's name upstairs. _

_A.J. saw an opening—he kicked the attacker in the abdomen as hard as he could. Seeing Whitaker take staggering steps back and crash into the workbench, he sprang back on his feet and put his hand on his holster but found it empty. So he charged ahead to counterattack him before the serial killer was ready to attack again._

_His upper body lying on the workbench, Whitaker heard someone running down the stairs and saw A.J. Simon coming at him. He gripped the knife firmly and thrust it forward to fend him off although he knew it was time to retreat. Keeping the PI at arm's length, he began to back off._

_As he reached the bottom of the stairs with his gun drawn, the door to the garage was halfway open giving Rick a partial view of a man holding a large hunting knife. He instantly recognized him as Lance Whitaker. Gripping the gun in both hands, he raised it to take aim but, for a mere fraction of a second, hesitated: Kill or maim? _

_This hesitation, however short, cost him the opportunity for the kill shot as Whitaker took another step backward, and with that, his head had disappeared behind the wall. There was no more time to waste. He fired a single round._

_Whitaker screamed in pain and dropped his knife when the bullet went through his right arm and became lodged in the upholstery of the van. He dropped to the concrete floor and rolled a few times to hide behind the van._

_Rick held his fire not wanting to shoot his brother unintentionally because he could hardly see what was going on in the garage. "A.J.?"_

_A.J. could not go after Whitaker not knowing whether Rick would fire his gun again. "I'm all right. I think we got him, Rick."_

_Rick burst into the garage as A.J. was picking up the knife Whitaker had dropped. Together, they cautiously advanced to go around the van and to corner the serial killer only to find themselves alone in the garage and the side door slightly ajar._

"_Damn! Damn! Damn!"_

_They ran outside cursing. Tracking Whitaker was not hard to do for he had left a trail of blood, but when they reached the end of the driveway, they heard the sound of a car engine firing up._

_They immediately ran to the Camaro that they had parked half a block away, but even before they got there, they could tell the tires had been slashed. Later on, A.J. found the vehicle registration missing from the glove compartment and a minor cut on his left arm._

_They had to call the police, and soon after, the entire neighborhood was crawling with the cops, forensic team, the reporters from local TV stations, gawkers… _

_While Rick was answering the police detectives' questions, A.J. called Danny's office to leave a message that the station was not going to get an exclusive report on Whitaker._

_In a space of a few hours, a tremendous amount of information on Lance Whitaker flooded in: that his house was equipped with a silent alarm, which Rick and A.J. had tripped upon entering the premises; that he had an IQ of 135, practically a genius as far as the score was concerned; that some of his killings had not been so random after all—one of the victims, for instance, had been a daughter of a school bully who had frequently tormented young Whitaker in high school, and another female victim had rejected an offer of drink from him and called him jerk at a local bar; that he had had a juvenile record of animal cruelty, which he had successfully expunged; that he had three advanced degrees, but his applications to several medical schools had all been rejected; that his parents had mysteriously vanished fifteen years ago, and he, the sole heir, had declared them dead and inherited everything…_

_The fact that Whitaker had a large fishing boat, however, surfaced too late. By the time the police swarmed the marina near his place, it had disappeared like its owner. All they could find was his abandoned truck. There was a lot of blood on the carpet and the upholstery but not enough to be fatal._

_After a few days of intense manhunt, the police and the FBI reluctantly announced that the prolific serial killer had presumably fled to Mexico._

_Nonetheless, for the following week or two, A.J. slept with a gun tucked under his pillow, and Rick slept on the couch downstairs with his gun ready on the coffee table, and Marlowe, on the kitchen floor guarding the entrance._

_Knowing that a cunning fugitive, who was now on the FBI's most wanted list, knew where they lived made Rick and A.J. uneasy. He might be on the government black list, but they figured they must be on the top of _his_ list._

_The case caused more than anxiety; they repeatedly reevaluated every single action they had taken at the Whitaker's residence. Failure to capture or kill him was especially hard on Rick. He had balked when he had had him in the crosshair_.

Chickened out, lost it, failed through and through…

_A.J. told him time and again it was only human to shy away from killing another human being in cold blood, but he could not bring his brother back from rock bottom where he kept wallowing in misery and self-loathing for weeks._

_Eventually, the healing quality of time gradually eased their intense emotions and anxiety. Christmas came and went, and a month or two into the following year, their lives returned to almost normal, but the Whitaker case had never faded away completely, constantly niggling at them at the back of their minds. Somehow they both had a premonition that this unfinished business would come back to haunt them._


	9. Chapter 9

Lance Whitaker crept up the stairs looking for his prey, not unlike a cat toying with an injured mouse or bird. Yet, he was cautious because this time, instead of a little, snot-nosed ragamuffin, or a knobby-kneed, skinny teenager with acne, he was going to bring down a full-grown man in tiptop condition. He had killed an adult male before, but he had been over sixty and out of shape.

His father had been an absent father who had worked long hours and let his domineering wife dictate him and their only child. When Whitaker had killed his mother, his father had cried and begged for his life. He had been such a weakling both physically and mentally his son had found little joy dismembering him.

A.J. Simon would be different though. Whitaker was determined to get the most out of this fine specimen.

Standing in the anteroom, he scanned the area and saw some spots on the floor: droplets of blood. They led to the stateroom, the last drop, only inches from the closet door. His brow furrowed. Had he overestimated A.J. Simon? This was too easy.

Nonetheless, he trod softly to the closet. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

He threw the closet door open—only to find the twisted black hat on the floor. The PI had wrung out the blood from the hat to mislead him with a false track.

He grinned, more delighted than disappointed. He enjoyed the thrill of the hunt as much as cutting up his game. He took the stairs again to climb up to the sundeck.

Whitaker pushed open the hatch and poked his head out to survey the small area where only a couple of people could comfortably stretch out for sunbathing. At the moment, there was no one on the top deck.

Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw a pair of hands latched on the handrail. He stepped onto the deck just in time to see the hands loosen their grip and sink below.

Whitaker trotted to the end of the deck and saw his current plaything sliding down the gentle slope that the exterior and the expansive windows of the cabin formed.

A.J. slid down feet first on his back, but he was not going as fast as he wanted to. The grade of this oversized slide was not very steep, and the blood-soaked trouser fabric was becoming sticky, somehow creating traction and slowing him down.

Halfway down the slope, he could not help looking up. As soon as he caught the sight of the handrail, Whitaker's face with a scary clown's smile materialized above it. Just when he thought he would be caught in mere seconds, the law of gravity kicked in; the descending speed picked up at long last. Landing was tricky—he did not want to aggravate the leg injury by landing on both feet.

By the time he hit the foredeck, however, he had gathered so much momentum he was afraid it would be too much for one foot to bear all his weight and the force of gravity. If he twisted his left ankle, it would be the end of everything: chances of survival, his life… At the last moment, A.J. curled his body and landed on left foot and hands. He rolled on the deck to defuse the impact, and his body collided with a pile of building materials and carpentry tools under a tarpaulin. When his injured thigh hit something hard under the tarp, the pain like a bolt of lightning coursed through his body. For the next several moments, the agony consumed him, putting him out of action temporarily.

Standing on the top deck, Whitaker leisurely watched A.J. writhing in pain after crashing into a pile of junk. The PI would be out of commission for a short while at least. The hunter unhurriedly observed the hunted considering the options. He did not want to finish him off too soon though. Oh no, he was going to make Rick Simon watch his brother die. Then he would make him pay for what he had done to him, to his hand and his lifework. The younger Simon was only an appetizer. It was the other Simon who was going to suffer the most and the longest.

He took a step back to collect himself—he had always been proud of his ability to keep his emotions in check. As he turned around to climb down the stairs, he saw something—or someone—move down below, a slight movement that only his heightened state could detect. He moved quickly over to the other end of the deck to have a better look.

Rick approached the yacht keeping his eyes peeled for any movement on the lower deck. He had seen his brother and Whitaker climbing the ladder on the side, but he opted for the swimming platform and the stern ladder to be less conspicuous. When he grabbed the top rung of the ladder, he drew his Magnum.

From the top deck, Whitaker had a bird's-eye view of Rick coming up from the swimming platform. He was certainly surprised to see him to say the least, but this could be a blessing in disguise, enabling him to kill two Simons with one stone, or one knife. He reached for the gun he had taken from A.J. and released the safety. Although knives were his personal choice of weapon, he was also an excellent marksman. It was one of the skills he had picked up by hanging around gun enthusiasts at trade shows. He took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.

Rick heard and felt the report of the gunfire and the effect of its destructive force instantaneously. As the bullet from A.J.'s gun nicked his arm, he felt it jerk involuntarily and lost his grip on the .44. It bounced off the platform below and fell into the water. He ducked hanging on to the top rung of the ladder with one hand.

A.J. ducked and flattened his body on the deck reacting to the sound of the gunfire though he could tell it was not aimed at him. Who was Whitaker shooting at?

Whitaker smiled when he heard a clunk and the following splash. Mission accomplished; he had just disarmed Rick. "I don't remember sending you an invitation for our private party, Simon."

A.J. suddenly felt cold all over. _Rick?_

"But the more the merrier, so you might as well as join us. We started our entertainment event without you though."

Rick had not seen or heard his brother since his return from Danny's rescue. "A.J.! Are you all right?"

_It IS Rick!_ "Rick…" A.J. tried to yell, but his throat was dry and scratchy. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Go back, Rick! Leave us alone!"

Rick was elated and relieved when he heard his brother's voice coming from the front end of the yacht. "Don't worry about Danny! He's safe now!"

Whitaker scowled though he did not believe what Rick had said. "You're bluffing, Simon. You'll never…"

"Conference Room 1 in Building 2, storage space, eyes duct-taped, handcuffed behind his back! Bomb on the shelf!"

_Couldn't be true!_ Whitaker stubbornly refused to believe Rick's claim.

"He's probably called the police by now."

Intense, blind fury he had never known before engulfed the serial killer, and his entire body shook with the uncontrollable, unfamiliar emotion. Rick Simon had thwarted his quest for greatness not just once but for the second time.

A.J. was certain Rick was telling the truth. Although his brother was known to bluff from time to time, Whitaker's silence was an eloquent testament. That meant he would not have to stay on the yacht any more.

The sight of A.J. resuming his struggle to get back on his feet set Whitaker in motion. He imagined he could hear the faintest sound of police cars' siren in the distance. He tucked the snub nose under the belt behind his back and stepped over the handrail to slide down to the lower deck.

Rick hazarded a peek when Whitaker held his fire and tongue. Seeing no one on the top deck, he climbed aboard watchfully. Thanks to another burst of adrenaline, he hardly felt the injury. _Just a flesh wound, anyway,_ he told himself. All of a sudden, the silence was broken by a loud crash, and a racket ensued. "A.J.!" His own safety measures completely forgotten, Rick raced to the bow alongside the cabin.

A.J. knew the only way to escape from certain death was jumping off the ship into the water down below. He had grown up in and around water, swimming and surfing along the Southern California beaches. Water was his element. He picked himself up and started hopping on one foot to the right side of the yacht.

Whitaker flew into the pile under the tarp and pounced back on his feet. He caught up with A.J. when they were only a couple of paces away from the starboard handrail. His flying tackle brought the PI down hard knocking the wind out of him. Before A.J. could catch his breath, Whitaker pulled up his upper body and put a chokehold on him with his right arm. He then drew the hunting knife out of the sheath on the belt.

"Whitaker!" Rick, who had just run the length of the port side, hollered when he saw a knife in the serial killer's hand. "Let him go!"

Whitaker's laugh sounded more like a dog's bark than the sound of merriment.

"It's not A.J. you want to kill. You want me dead 'cause I shot you and ruined everything for you."

Whitaker stopped laughing and scowled. Rick Simon might be smarter than he had given him credit for.

"Rick, don't…" A.J. tried to dissuade his brother but was simply ignored.

"Besides, you have enough time to kill only one of us." Right on cue, everyone on the deck heard the sirens of squad cars, ambulances and what have you approaching. "If you kill my brother, I'll jump into the water, and you'll never catch me before the police get here."

Emboldened by Whitaker's indecision, Rick pushed him a little further, "Let my brother go and come and get me. Or, do you prey only on small kids, young girls and the maimed 'cause you don't have the guts to take on the able-bodied? 'Cause you're a coward?"

Rick's mocking chuckle grated on Whitaker's already frayed nerves. It was becoming harder and harder to control his rage, and he hated the older Simon even more for it.

"Or, we can stare at each other in stalemate until the cops get here if that's what you want."

Abruptly, A.J. felt the arm around his neck loosen. Before he could react, Whitaker kicked him in the kidney.

A smirk returned to the killer's face when he saw Rick flinch at the sight of his brother falling and curling up in pain on the deck. He casually took a few steps and viciously kicked the PI in the head this time. A.J.'s body twitched then went limp.

Rick tore off his jacket with bullet holes and lunged at Whitaker with what sounded like a war cry. When Whitaker brandished his knife, he tried to swat it with the jacket, but the killer batted it away with his right hand.

Whitaker thrust his weapon at Rick several times in rapid succession. Rick fought hard, but it was not a fair fight to go up against a knife-wielding lunatic with bare hands, to say the least. He started to back off to avoid the blade when it nicked him in the shoulder. As Whitaker made another knife thrust, Rick jumped back and landed and slipped on the tarpaulin. When he took another step back to keep his balance, he tripped over A.J.'s still body sprawled on the deck.

Whitaker grinned from ear to ear seeing Rick fall on the pile of crates and tools that ensnared him. It reminded him of the time he had cornered A.J. in his garage several months earlier. This time, there was another crucial difference: the brothers were both disarmed. Too bad he would not be able to take his own sweet time to cut them up. The sirens of emergency vehicles were coming closer and closer. Still he had ample time to slit their throats or cut them open one after another.

Raising the knife over his head, Whitaker smiled a hideous smile. "Good-bye, Simon."

As the knife started its descent, Rick curled his body into a tight ball, half resigned to accept the agony and death that, for a certainty, would follow, but when that moment never came, he looked up.

Whitaker was stunned when A.J. Simon, who he'd thought had been incapacitated at his feet, sprang up to jump between him and Rick Simon. Instead of fleeing instinctively from the deadly weapon like others would, he embraced it willingly. While doing so, A.J. wrapped his arms around Whitaker's torso, grabbed the gun, which was tucked under the waistband, and tossed it behind him. Whitaker staggered backward but managed to remain upright.

Sitting up, Rick caught the gun in midair with one hand, released the safety catch, positioned it while raising his hands to take aim and fired a single shot without the slightest hesitation, all in under a couple of seconds, as the serial killer stood frozen, bewildered.

The last thing on Whitaker's mind before the back of his skull exploded was the crushing realization and the subsequent wrath that he was being cheated out of what he believed to be his entitlement.

The impact of the gunfire knocked him off his feet. When his body, to which A.J. was still clinging, slumped over the rickety handrail on the deck, it gave way. For a barest moment, they seemed to be suspended in midair.

"_No-o-o-o-o!_"

Rick screamed as they plummeted towards the black water below like a tragic couple in each other's arms taking a lovers' leap. As he heard the splash ten, fifteen feet down, he blindly dove into the vast, unyielding blackness.


	10. Chapter 10

The plunge into the dark water jolted A.J. out of trance he seemed to have been in. The water was unusually cool, and the lack of light disoriented him. He was not sure if he was going up or down. Then he saw a faint glow overhead. He swam towards the dim light to break the surface—and woke up on a stretcher.

"A.J.?"

He felt a hand on his forehead, fingers running through his matted hair.

"Rick?" He whispered his brother's name. His own voice sounded weak and wheezy.

"Just hang in there, okay? We'll get you to the hospital in no time," said Rick trying to sound reassuring while a couple of paramedics tended A.J.'s wounds and took his vitals. He was using his body to partially block the field of his brother's vision so he would not have to see the hunting knife handle protruding from his midriff. No one except a medical doctor would dare touch it fearing massive bleeding.

A.J. noticed Rick was soaking wet and wrapped in a blanket. His brother had a bandage on one shoulder and his right arm was in a sling. He also noted the presence of the police, the forensic team and the bomb squad around him. As the paramedic wheeled him to the back of one of the ambulances, he saw a white sheet covering a telltale mound on the ground.

"Is he…?" A raling cough cut his speech short.

"Whitaker? Yeah, dead."

"Good."

Still coughing, A.J. felt no guilt or remorse for being the catalyst for Lance Whitaker's sudden and violent death. Some souls were too far-gone to be called a human being.

While the paramedics were getting ready to leave, Rick told his brother that Danny had non-life-threatening injuries and had been taken to a nearby ER already.

The ambulance sped off to the nearest ER facility with the lights flashing, the siren blaring. Rick hovered over his brother and talked incessantly during the whole ride. It was pretty much a one-sided conversation because A.J. was in no shape to chat, but he was compelled to do so in order to drown out his panicky inner voice and the grim communication between the paramedics and an ER doctor on the radio. Still, he could not help overhearing snippets of their shoptalk: BP dropping, S.O.B., aspirated water, a knife in the upper right quadrant of the abdomen…

He blamed himself yet again for not killing Whitaker six months ago when he had had a brief but perfect chance. If he had, none of this would have happened. Besides, it was he that was supposed to be on the gurney, not A.J.

"Rick?" A.J.'s voice was barely audible, and his face, paler than it had been only a few minutes ago. "If I…" Speaking only a few words seemed to have sapped out his energy. His eyelids drooped over his eyes. "Just in case I don't make it…"

"Don't you dare," Rick whispered fiercely into his brother's ear. "Don't you die on me, or…"

A.J. opened one of his eyes just a crack. "Or, you're gonna kill me?" He seemed to be smiling under the oxygen mask though his speech was slurred and labored.

"You better believe it," declared Rick returning a smile though he was a nervous wreck inside.

"Wouldn't that be physically…" A.J. rested a little. His chest hurt every time he took a breath. He closed his eyes for a moment. Opening them again, he spoke the last word to finish the sentence, "…impossible?"

"What?"

He became momentarily confused when he realized he was looking up at not his brother but a woman in a hospital uniform.

"Oh, you're awake! Great!" She—Michelle, R.N., said her name badge—beamed. "Your brother will be thrilled. He just stepped out to take a call. I'll go get him, okay?"

A.J. nodded wondering how much time had lapsed since the last moment of consciousness during the ambulance ride.

"Can I get you anything before I go? How's your pain level? Do you need another dose of pain medication?"

This time, he shook his head. He was just groggy, disoriented and exhausted. And cold.

"You may be fine for a while longer because you just got wheeled out of the OR, but let me know right away when the anesthesia and pain meds start wearing off. All right?"

_OR? Anesthesia? I had a surgery?_

The nurse fussed over him like a mother caring for a sick baby before she went out of the recovery room to look for Rick and to let the doctor know he was awake.

"A.J.!" Rick flew back into the room shouting. A.J. had never seen him run this fast—well, except the time he'd been caught red-handed by the father of the girl he'd been making out with when he'd been fifteen or sixteen.

Somewhere in the hallway, Michelle the nurse was ordering Rick not to excite the patient too much but he was paying no heed, asking his brother if he was okay repeatedly. A.J. couldn't help but smile at Rick's single-mindedness.

Rick was a mess; in addition to the bandage and the sling, he had an adhesive strip on the forehead, some bruises on the arms and the face. His eyes were bloodshot from fatigue and lack of sleep, his face drawn with two days' worth of stubble.

"My God, you look terrible, Rick." A.J. managed to croak behind the oxygen mask.

That caught Rick off guard. He stopped babbling for a beat then threw his head back and started laughing albeit maniacally. "Man, I wish I had a mirror to prove it, but you don't look so hot either, kiddo. Just this once, I'll say I'm the beauty, and you're the beast."

Rick and, later on, the attending doctor told A.J about the traumas he had sustained: lacerated liver, blood loss, water in lungs, among others.

In the late afternoon, the surgeon happily announced the prognosis was excellent. He wanted to keep A.J. in the hospital for several days to let him recover from the operation and water in the lungs, both of which could lead to an infection although he was on antibiotics on top of other meds. He assured A.J. would be fine so long as he followed the medical staff's instructions and recommendations. The doctor also told him to keep using a device called incentive spirometer, and that he should begin his daily exercise regimen of walking up and down the hallway starting tomorrow.

"We'll keep an eye on the incision, vital signs, oxygen level and such for the next few days, and hopefully your lungs will clear by the time you leave the hospital. Our bodies are capable of absorbing a small amount of fluids in our lungs," said Dr. Covington with a confident smile. "Do you have any questions or concerns?"

After a few moments, A.J. shook his head.

"Well, I don't have anything more to add as a doctor, but as a father of two teenage daughters, I personally would like to thank you for what you've done," said the doctor with heartfelt sincerity. "Just let me know if I could do anything to make your stay more comfortable, okay?"

"Thank you," said A.J., and on the heels of it, he added, "Actually, there is something I'd like you to do."

"Anything, anything at all," said Dr. Covington earnestly. "What is it?"

"Tell my brother to get some sleep."

"What?" The doctor stared at A.J. as if he had just spoken ancient Greek.

"He hasn't slept for almost two days but wouldn't listen to me when I tell him to get some rest. My injuries may be worse than his, but at least, I'm resting comfortably—to a degree." A.J. huffed glancing at the bathroom where Rick was in at the moment. "I'll be able to rest a whole lot easier if he stops asking me how I'm doing every five minutes. If he resists your order, slip something in his drink, or put him in a straight-jacket and sedate him, I don't care."

"I heard that!" Rick emerged from the bathroom glaring at his brother, "Well, _excuse_ me for caring."

"And please tell him again the importance of hand-washing, Dr. Covington. I don't want to die from an infection after surviving a major operation!"

The doctor just shook his head and hid his grin while the newest hometown heroes were carrying on like a couple of squabbling kids in the backseat of their family van during a long road trip.

S&S S&S

Eventually, Rick accepted some sleep aid from Dr. Covington and crashed. When Cecilia Simon, who had been vacationing in Victoria, Canada, rushed to the hospital that evening, she found her firstborn stretched over two chairs next to A.J.'s bed. He was in such a deep sleep, when she tenderly traced the outline of the bandage on his forehead with her fingertip, he didn't even twitch.

She hesitated to touch her other son—he looked extremely fragile with so many tubes and shunts stuck in his body. Nevertheless, she needed to feel the warmth of his body to be sure that he was still alive.

At her feathery touch on his hand, A.J.'s eyes fluttered and opened ever so slowly.

"Hi, Mom," said he sleepily.

"Hi, honey," whispered Cecilia forcing a ghost of a smile. "Sorry I woke you up."

"Are you kidding?" He offered her a wan smile. "Sleep is all I've been doing."

"So, how are you doing? Are you in pain? If so, I can ask the nurse to give you…"

"No, Mom." He shook his head. "No more drugs. I'm on so many medications I can hardly think. I hate that feeling."

Cecilia knew what her youngest hated was losing his control of any situation. "Honey," she gently rubbed his hand that was free of the IV tube. "You're supposed to be resting, not thinking. Sometimes it's all right to let other people take care of you. Just let it go and get as much sleep as your body needs so that you can heal faster."

A.J. blinked a couple of times, trying to understand what his mother had just told him in a drug-induced haze. "Okay," said he softly after a while. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Sorry? Whatever for?"

"Made you worry," he said in a small voice full of regret.

She looked her son in the eye and said, "No, A.J., you made me proud. Don't you know that? I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared when Rick called, but I always worry about you two anyway—it comes with the territory. I just want you to know that you and your brother made me the proudest mother in the world." She paused for an instant. "But…"

"What?"

"I have a confession to make. When I learned that you'd been seriously hurt, for an instant, I thought, 'why does it have to be my son, why not someone else's?' and I felt so ashamed of it, being so selfish after you've done such an unselfish deed."

"No, not selfish," he declared shaking his head. "Just being a mother—a very good one at that."

"I'm not so sure about that, honey…"

"And tough."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me _that_. I kept my sanity during Rick's teenage years, didn't I?" Cecilia deadpanned. "Just barely."

His mother's comment brought a smile on A.J.'s face.

"Mom? Do you remember when he…did…? Um…" He broke off frowning when his mind suddenly went blank like the switch had been turned off.

This was one of the reasons he hated getting all sorts of chemicals pumped into his body at all hours. Frustrated, he closed his eyes trying to recapture the elusive train of thought.

"When he did what, sweetheart?"

No response.

"A.J.?"

Her son only sighed. It took Cecilia a few moments to realize he had dozed off.

The next hour or so, she silently watched her two sons sleep, like a protective mother bear watching over her cubs.


	11. Chapter 11

Cecilia returned from the nurses' station where she had taken a call and saw her sons coming back to A.J.'s room.

"How was your walk, dear?"

"Horrible," replied A.J. angrily.

"Oh, no! What's wrong?" Fearing an unexpected setback, she gathered her son into her arms.

"Your firstborn, that's what." He glared at Rick. "I'm supposed to be walking unaided, but he's all over me, gets in my way while making a running commentary."

"Sure, you should walk unaided like the doc says, but you still need someone to keep an eye on you." Rick shot back.

"That's fine so long as that someone can keep his mouth shut. You're just bossing me around like you've been doing since the day I was born!"

"Hmm. Sounds like someone missed his nap today."

Cecilia, who had presided over her sons' grievances countless times since their childhood, calmly inserted herself between them. "Back off a little, Rick. A.J., you do need supervision just in case."

She took her youngest son's hand in hers, guided him to his bed and sat him down. "I know being confined to a small hospital room for a few days is getting to both of you." She smiled consolingly. "I bet you could use some good news."

"Are you sending Rick home?"

"Ha! That goes to show you just don't know what's good for you!" retorted Rick sitting down in a hard, unwelcoming guest chair to let him know he was not leaving anytime soon.

"Boys, please." It was more of a demand than a plea. "As I was saying, I have good news to tell you." She made sure her sons were paying attention. "I just received a phone call from Diane."

"Oh. How's Danny doing?" asked Rick.

"He's going to be discharged from his hospital this afternoon or evening." Cecilia then told A.J., "She was here right after your surgery, but you were resting. She said she'd like to stop by here before picking him up."

"That's wonderful."

A.J. tried to sound upbeat, but he did not fool his mother. She knew he was frustrated and longing to get away from this cold, sterile environment and sleep in his own bed.

"A.J., listen," she gazed into his eyes, "You and your brother have given the most precious gift to the Morrison boys: their father on Father's Day."

"Is it Sunday?" He sounded a little confused. He had lost the sense of time since he had last seen Diane.

"No, it's Saturday," Rick informed him and wished their mother hadn't mentioned the upcoming Father's Day, remembering how moody A.J. had been the other day on the beach. He would rather have his brother angry with him than see him brooding.

Cecilia put her hand on A.J.'s knee and said, "You look tired, honey. Why don't you rest for a while before we have company?"

He did not object to her suggestion although he had been complaining about having to take naps like a toddler.

Watching A.J. getting ready for bed, Rick wondered if his brother would be up for Diane's visit.

S&S S&S

A.J. heard them though he was not quite awake—Rick, his mother, a couple of kids talking and walking outside his room. Their voices were coming closer.

"Uncle Rick, you sure we don't have to get an ice cream sandwich for Uncle A.J.?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure. His doctor just switched his diet from no food to liquid diet. He can't eat regular food yet."

"You can melt the ice cream in the middle and give it to him then."

"You sure are a smart kid, aren't you? But it doesn't work that way. He's on a clear liquid diet, you know, juice, soda, broth, tequila…"

"Rick!"

"Oops. Sorry, Mom. It was an honest mistake."

_The hell it was_, thought A.J. still half asleep.

When a round of laughter tapered off, someone opened the door.

"Oh, he's still asleep."

"No, I'm not." A.J. opened his eyes and smiled at Diane Morrison, who was peeking in.

"Hi, Uncle A.J.!"

Kevin Morrison, a six-year-old carrot-top with freckles, bounded into his room. "You were sleepin' when we got here, so Uncle Rick took us to the cafeteria and bought us ice cream!"

"Like he needed more sugar in his system," said Diane, rolling her eyes.

Towards the end of greetings and small talk among the adults in the room, the older Morrison boy with soft brown hair and clear blue eyes nudged his little brother to remind him something.

"Oh, yeah. I almost forgot," mumbled Kevin and produced a card, folded in half and somewhat crumpled, from his pants pocket. "I made it all by myself!" He proudly announced.

A.J. had to smooth out some wrinkles first to read it. The cover of the card had a few hearts and, for some inexplicable reason, a drawing of a truck. It said, "Thank you Uncle A.J." When he opened it, there were four stick figures depicting his family. They were labeled, "Mom," "Dad," "Kenny," and "Me." Above several Xs and Os, Kevin had written in childish uneven letters, "We all love you! Kevin."

"You did this all by yourself? I can't believe it! Thank you so much, Kevin," said A.J. without sounding condescending; he had meant every word he had said.

Unlike his brother, Kenny was much more demure, and he solemnly presented A.J. a little more sophisticated homemade card. He anxiously observed him while he was reading it.

"Dear Uncle A.J.," the card read. "I will never forget what you did to save my dad. From now on, I will always remember and thank you not only on Father's Day but everyday for the rest of my life. Forever yours with undying love and gratitude, Kendal." The word, 'gratitude' was spelled G-R-A-D-I-T-U-D-E.

A.J. slowly read it a couple of times.

And again.

And again.

"Don't you like it?" asked Kenny nervously, his young face clouded with worries.

A.J. looked up startled. "I love it, Kenny. This is the nicest card I've ever received in my entire life."

He smiled when the boy's face lit up with unbridled joy.

"What about mine?" Kevin whined.

"Yours and Kenny's are the greatest," A.J. reassured him. "The truck you drew on your card looks really good—it looks a lot nicer than the one Uncle Rick drives."

"Ha! I got a race car on my card, and it's a whole lot nicer than your Chevy!" countered Rick. "Lumber-guinea, right?" He teased Kevin.

Peeved by Rick's blasphemous statement, the boy piped up. "Lamborghini! Lamborghini!"

"Kevin! How many times do I have to tell you? You may not yell or act up in a hospital room," said Diane in a stern voice. She then apologized to the Simons, "I'm very sorry, but he's so excited to bring his father home today. Isn't that right, Kev?"

"Yeah! Come on, let's go see him, Mom!"

"That must be our cue," sighed Diane and turned her gaze to A.J. in bed. "I came here to thank you and your brother, but words are inadequate to express my…"

"You don't have to, Diane. I got all the thanks I need from your boys." A.J. held up the cards from Kenny and Kevin.

She smiled warmly. Then she bent over to kiss him on the cheek. Gently placing her hand over his, she whispered, "Nevertheless, thank you from the bottom of our hearts."

As he nodded his head to acknowledge her heartfelt thanks, she gathered her sons around her.

"All right, boys. We're going to pick up Dad now."

"Yay!" His mother's warning already forgotten, Kevin screamed and darted out of the room.

"Kevin!" Diane and Cecilia ran after the boy shouting simultaneously.

Seeing his mother take off like a lithe eighteen-year-old made Rick grin. _She used to come after me like that_, he recalled. _Once a mother, always a mother._

Kenny started to follow his mother but hesitated taking a backward glance. He then came back to A.J.'s bedside and threw his arms around his neck.

"I really meant what I said in my card, Uncle A.J.," he whispered into his ear. "You're the best!"

The boy kissed A.J. on the cheek as his mother had done and smiled shyly.

A.J. smiled back tenderly and said, "You'd better get going, Kenny. And please say 'hi' to your dad for me. Okay?"

Kenny nodded and ran out of the room to catch up with his family. A.J.'s smile lingered on his lips after the boy had left.

"Know what, Rick?"

"What?"

"You were right about one thing; handmade cards are unarguably better than store-bought ones."

Rick could not believe his ears. He knew A.J. usually hated admitting he was right, but he was not going to question this unforced admission. "Yeah, told ya."

A.J. read Kenny's card for the umpteenth time.

"They're nice kids, aren't they? Kenny and Kevin," said Rick eyeing his brother.

"Yes," whispered A.J., his eyes still on the cards.

"They kinda make you wish you had kids like them, don't they?" said Rick. "Well, almost."

A.J. smiled when his brother hastily backpedaled from his admission of desire to have children. He knew Rick would be a terrific father if he chose to become one because he and their father were kindred spirits: wild, funny, protective and yet incorrigible…

"Who knows, five, ten years down the road, you may be getting a Father's Day card from your own kid, A.J."

A.J. just nodded while wondering why one sometimes felt like crying when they were so utterly happy.


End file.
